


In Times of Trouble

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-12-24 17:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: In which Hamilton and Laurens alternately care for and worry over each other from September to October 1777.





	1. A Guest at the Funeral

“To Hamilton.”

“To Alexander!”

The crowded tavern-cum-sitting room rang with the raised voices of two dozen men, all dressed in their uniforms and crowded around a battered, wooden table weighed down with overflowing jugs of ale. As they shouted their toast, each man lifted his tankard – some more unsteadily than others – to salute their fallen friend. 

One man, alone in a cob-webbed corner of the tavern, did not join in the toast. Hunched over in his chair, John Laurens squeezed his eyes shut to keep the room from spinning. 

“Laurens,” called a familiar voice from across the room, “join us! None of us priggers should be alone tonight, man.”

“Whisht,” muttered a soft, deep voice from the direction of the hearth, “and mind your own business, Tilghman . Can’t you see the lad’s in no mood for your company?”

The news of the British ambush had arrived less than an hour before , and news of the loss of Washington’s chief aide de camp had spread like wildfire through the camp. Soldiers and officers of every rank had gathered in the common room of the inn to commiserate and to trade stories of the indefatigable young Scotsman from Nevis who had, according to a letter from Captain Lee’s own hand, drowned during a skirmish in the icy waters of Daviser’s Ferry.

Thunder growled in the distance as the men drank deeply of the watered-down ale. Tilghman called out to Laurens again and actually began to wend an uneasy path across the rush-strewn floor before a grim-faced James McHenry grabbed him by the arm, shaking his head darkly.

Laurens remained stolidly silent, refusing to meet any of his friends’ eyes, but a moment later, he started at the touch of a large, warm hand at his shoulder. Kneeling in front of him, the Marquis de Lafayette watched Laurens with a look of gentle concern.

“ _Mon ami,_ ” he said, voice lowered so that only Laurens could hear, “I know this has been hard on you. Such news will always be… how do you say?… difficult to bear. But you are not alone. You see, we all mourn for Alexander.”

“Mourn?” Laurens scoffed, lifting his unkempt head a fraction so as to better bestow a scalding look at the other man. “Half of these men did not know him from Adam and yet they raise their glasses and declare their affection. See! That one wipes his eyes as though he would cry for… for a man who… he…”

Laurens was embarrassed to find that he could not continue. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he promptly buried his face in his hands. He heard Lafayette sigh.

“Alexander knew the risks when he joined the revolution. I do not say that it is fair, but would he want you to be miserable when he has only done what he always said he would be happy to do: die for a cause that is bigger than any man? Any of us?”

Laurens thought bleakly of the many late nights that he and Hamilton had spent writing feverish letters to Congress, to the troops, talking all the while about the inevitable, glorious end of this war and the dawn of a new age for their country. How could it be that Hamilton wouldn’t live to see that new world? Laurens bit down on his tongue to keep from sobbing out loud.

Lafayette got to his feet and gave Laurens’ shoulder one final squeeze. 

“We fight now in his name,” he said, his voice thick with drink and emotion, “but not tonight. Will you join me, my dear Laurens? Mulligans tells me that he has spirited away a flask of fine whiskey that he will gladly share with—”

_“Sweet Jesus!”_

The door of the tavern had swung open with a bang, and the men nearest the entrance leapt from their seats in surprise. A shadow darkened the doorway, and a pair of soldiers who had been about to make for their tents backed away quickly.

“What now?” Lafayette muttered darkly, pulling himself awkwardly to his feet. “Are we to have no peace from this –- _mon dieu!_ ”

Laurens stood, craning his neck to see around Lafayette. It was a full minute before he could comprehend the sight that met his eyes as he squinted towards the open door.

Soaking wet and mud spattered, Alexander Hamilton leaned against the doorframe, breathing heavily but smiling for all the world like a man who fully expects his friends to share in a great joke.

“Have I walked into a funeral,” he asked, pulling his sodden coat from his shoulders and staring around at the group gathered within. “You all look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

There was a moment of total silence before laughter, loud and unsure, broke out among the assembled.

“Here now,” exclaimed Tilghman, staggering from his seat, cheeks pale despite the broad smile stretched across his face, “what can you mean by this, Hamilton? Here we are, enjoying a flagon of ale in your honor, and you mean to ruin the occasion by revealing that you did not die a soldier’s death, after all?”

Hamilton’s smile faltered.

“Die?” he repeated, uncharacteristically at a loss for words as he dropped his coat to the floor with an unpleasant splat.

“We received word from Lee that you dove from your boat and were not recovered,” McHenry said as he drew up a chair to the fire and guided a bemused Hamilton into it.

“I swam for cover when the Redcoats started firing,” Hamilton explained, his eyes searching the crowd as though seeking for a witness to confirm his tale. “The current pulled me farther downstream than I had calculated, but I made it to shore, and… well, here I am!”

“To Hamilton,” Tilghman cried, thrusting a full mug of ale into Hamilton’s hands and raising his own above his head. “May his lucky star shine on us all!”

“Hear, hear,” shouted the other men in unison.

Amid the cheers and toasts, Laurens slipped from the room unnoticed by all except Lafayette, who marked his passing but was prevented from following by the vice-like grip of a euphoric Mulligans whose strong-armed grip had caught him unawares in the thrall of a congratulatory embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes for historicity's sake:
> 
> \--For more fun, Revolutionary War-era slang, head on over to [https://www.dailydot.com/unclick/18th-19th-century-vulgar-slang-terms/].  
> \--Tench Tilghman was a close friend of Alexander’s who also served as an aide de camp to Washington during the war, though whether he was in camp at this time is unclear. From what I've read, Tilghman was a loyal aide and rarely left Washington's side, so it's fairly safe to assume he would have been around for this. To read more about Tilghman, check out [http://www.mountvernon.org/digital-encyclopedia/article/tench-tilghman/].  
> \--Records state that Hamilton arrived moments after Lee’s letter arrived and was read by Washington, but I like the drama of a false death report left unopposed. The better for stirring up latent homosexual yearnings in certain young aides de campe, AMIRIGHT?  
> \--James McHenry was an Irish doctor/medic who often tended to Hamilton in his frequent illnesses


	2. What We Do in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens was never good at hiding his emotions.

Laurens made it to the base of the drafty stairwell leading up to the aides’ bedchambers before doubling over and collapsing on the lowest tread. Laughter or sobs, he did not recognize the sounds issuing from deep in his chest. He tore desperately at his collar, ripping his kerchief in an effort to staunch the tears falling thickly from eyes already raw with emotion. 

When the door to the main hall opened quietly a few moments later, Laurens clambered awkwardly to his feet and swiped roughly at his face with his torn kerchief.

“Laurens?”

The voice was immediately familiar, and for the first time in their acquaintance, Laurens found himself wishing desperately that Hamilton was anywhere but here.

When no response was forthcoming, Hamilton stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind him and crossing the gloomy hallway to peer into the shadows where Laurens had pressed himself against the opposite wall, quite ready to look ridiculous rather than allow the other man to see his tear-stained face.

“John,” Hamilton said, his wide eyes glinting in the faint light of a candle from the landing above, “are you quite all right? Only, I didn’t see you in the tavern and Tilghman seemed convinced that you needed to see me as soon as possible.”

“I’m fine,” Laurens replied, surprising himself with how even his voice sounded despite the tight, hot knot in his chest. “I merely recalled a letter left unfinished, and I thought to have it sealed before turning in. Go back to the celebration, Hamilton.”

“Not without you,” Hamilton said, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. When he found Laurens unyielding, he took another step towards his friend and froze when proximity revealed Laurens’ stricken face and trembling shoulders.

“Here now,” he cried, “you aren’t at all well. Let me get you a drink, at least. John, you should sit! I’ll find you a chair, just wait—”

Laurens’ arm flew out, unbidden, and his fingers caught on the still-damp fabric of Hamilton’s sleeve.

“No!” he said more energetically than he had intended. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and said, “I am fine. Truly. It’s only…”

In his mind, he riffled through the many varied excuses he could give for being caught out in such a pathetic state. Exhaustion. Overwork. Frustration over the state of the troops. Homesickness. But looking into Hamilton’s eyes, narrowed with concern and flashing an alarming, pale blue in the candlelight, the truth slipped out instead.

“Lee’s letter,” he began, grasping for coherence, “it… well, it affected us rather more than is, perhaps, manly.”

After a moment’s confusion, understanding dawned on Hamilton’s face and his eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

“All of this because of me, John?”

Laurens nodded miserably and refused to meet Hamilton’s eyes. 

Stepping up to join Laurens on the lowest tread, Hamilton grasped the other man’s hand in his and pressed it urgently to his chest. Laurens could only gape: Hamilton’s flesh was hot beneath the thin, soiled cloth of his shirt, and he could feel a steady heartbeat drumming out a soldier’s march beneath his ribs.

“I’m _alive_ , John,” Hamilton said, his voice soft and insistent. “Please don’t cry for me.”

Laurens grinned faintly, still not trusting himself to speak. Nevertheless, Hamilton seemed cheered to see the other man smile.

“Honestly, Laurens,” Hamilton said, pulling a wrinkled handkerchief from his coat pocket, “of all the ways I might achieve martyrdom in this damned war, drowning is hardly at the top of the list. I grew up by the ocean, remember? We learned to swim before we could walk down there in Nevis.”

Laurens accepted the handkerchief, dabbing it to his eyes before offering it back to its owner.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Keep it.”

As Laurens tucked the soggy cotton square into his own chest pocket, he looked at Hamilton fully for the first time that evening.

“Alexander,” he said, pressing the back of his hand against the other man’s forehead. “You’re flushed and – yes, you feel as though you’ve stood with your face in the fire this last hour!”

“Nonsense,” Hamilton said, shrugging off Laurens’ concern. “I am perfectly fine. In fact, it’s rather cool in this hallway. Perhaps if we stepped into the tavern, we could…”

What they could do was promptly interrupted by a resounding sneeze that so unsettled Hamilton that he had to clutch at the banister to stay upright.

“Perfectly fine,” Laurens repeated, shaking his head fondly. “Upstairs with you before you keel over.”

Hamilton looked as though he wanted to protest, but another cacophonous sneeze seemed to make him reconsider his position. When Laurens led him up the stairs and towards their shared bed chamber, he did not resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may have been out of character to make Laurens so weepy, but despite his unquestionable bravery in battle, Laurens appears, from his letters, to be a man of passion. If he thought he had lost his closest friend (and possibly love-interest) so unexpectedly, I don't think it would be beyond him to lose himself to tears, especially if he thought that he was alone with his feelings.
> 
> I don't know whether Hamilton actually learned to swim as a child, but considering where he lived (it was an island, after all), I felt like it was a pretty safe assumption to make.
> 
> Despite the title of this chapter, there are no vampires lurking in Washington's camp... that we know of.
> 
> There is also no record (that I could find) that Hamilton actually became sick after his brush with death, but come on: the man's immune system was absolute shite.


	3. To Make the Sanest Man Go Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton sleeps at last, and a restless Laurens finds comfort in Homer.

Hamilton grumbled briefly about being forced “like a babe” into his bed, but by the time they had reached the top of the stairs, his pale cheeks and heavy eyelids betrayed his exhaustion. Laurens watched him climb beneath his thin wool blanket fully clothed and was satisfied to hear the slow, steady breaths of sleep before many minutes had passed.

Half an hour’s restless staring at the ceiling passed before Laurens gave up on sleep himself. His body still coursed with the adrenaline that seeing Alexander walk into the tavern, alive and well, had caused, and every time he closed his eyes, his mind became a tangle of images: Hamilton drowned on the shore of a river; Hamilton dead on a battle-field, bullet-holes riddling his officer’s coat; Hamilton at the end of a British bayonet, bleeding into the snow.

Restless and at a loss for how to keep his brain from repeating these gruesome scenes, Laurens finally drew back his own blankets and cast about the room for something with which to occupy himself. His eyes fell upon the desk that he and Hamilton shared when their duties as aides de camp called them to write on Washington’s behalf. 

Amid piles of ration accounts and expense analyses, Laurens spied the spine of a small, battered book. He recognized it as a favorite of Hamilton’s, the dull grey cover often to be seen clutched in his hands whenever their ceaseless tasks allowed him a moment’s respite. The title was in Greek, but Laurens was a scholar himself and had studied the classics at school.

_The Iliad._

A smile played on Laurens’ lips as he thought with amusement of Hamilton dreaming of the epic battles of the Trojans and Athenians, foreigners on a distant shore fighting for honor and glory. Yes, it was exactly the sort of story he would favor.

Although his Greek was rusty, being seldom-used in his current profession, still Laurens found himself quickly engrossed in Homer’s tale of love and betrayal, gods and mortals, and before he realized it, the fire had died down in the hearth so that he had to squint to make out the words on the page. He rose to stoke the flames, flinching at the sound of cracking logs which he thought must surely wake Hamilton. However, the other man slept on, and so Laurens returned to his bed and The Iliad.

As he read, he noticed an increasing number of notations in the margins of almost every page, notes about interesting developments or inconsistencies in the translation. Occasionally, Laurens even noticed notes to Homer himself, usually berating the long-dead poet for leaving out important plot points or describing a simple scene in too much detail (a fault of which, Laurens thought, Hamilton himself was guilty on more than one occasion). As the battles became bloodier and the death toll rose, there were brief exclamations of surprise and dismay and, increasingly, exclamation marks to denote a particularly satisfying rout. 

It was clear to Laurens who Hamilton’s favorite character was. Achilles’ name had been underlined on a number of pages, and Hamilton had been most attentive to the mythological hero’s many monologues. Laurens could see much of his friend in the Greek warrior: talented and strong but stubborn to the last, Achilles, too, refused to fight unless he believed whole-heartedly in his cause. Prone to brooding but loving towards those they held dear, both men were the sons of mothers they revered, and when honor called, they were just, even unto their enemies. The image of Achilles “playing on a lyre… and singing the feats of heroes” recalled fond memories of Hamilton who, when properly lubricated with drink, would sing songs of his native Nevis to his comrades. And of course, Achilles had his loyal Patroclus, and Hamilton had…

John sprung guiltily from his bed at the barrage of harsh, barking coughs from across the room. While he had been reading, Hamilton’s breath had become ragged and, to Lauren’s dismay, there was a sheen of sweat across the sleeping man’s brow that had not been there before and a mottled, red flush to his cheeks that almost erased his freckles.

“There, now,” Laurens murmured under his breath, brushing the back of his hand across Hamilton’s forehead as his own mother had done to him countless times when he was a child, “it’s quite all right.”

Although he didn’t wake, Hamilton shifted restlessly beneath the blanket as though unconsciously voicing his disagreement.

Laurens had seen Hamilton ill countless times before. The man seemed cursed to a life of infirmity, though you wouldn’t know it to watch him astride a horse in the midst of cacophonous battle. A childhood of poverty in the Caribbean had not prepared him for the cold winters of New York, nor for the ravages of an unexpected swim in the frigid Schuykill.

Debating the wisdom of waking McHenry, Laurens settled for fetching a clean handkerchief and the washbasin, recently filled in anticipation of their morning ablutions. Settling himself carefully on the edge of Hamilton’s bed so as not to wake the sleeping man, Laurens dipped his cloth in the water and gently dabbed at the skin just below Hamilton’s hairline. Hamilton shifted but did not wake, and although the flush did not recede from his clammy skin, the damp cloth seemed to comfort him.

After a few minutes’ repeated ministrations, Laurens sensed an improvement. He smiled to see the ever-present wrinkles of anxious concentration that usually creased Hamilton’s brow fade, and he thought that the man might sleep well at last. But when he made to rise and return to his own bed, he felt a pressure on his arm and looked down, alarmed, to where Hamilton’s hand clutched at his sleeve.

“Hamilton, are you…” Laurens began, but it was quickly apparent that the movement had been unconsciously done; Hamilton slept on, his breath rasping quietly.

Laurens felt his heartbeat quicken as he settled himself on the bed once more.

 _It is nothing,_ he told himself. _He is responding to something in a dream. He doesn’t even know I’m here._

The thought didn’t stop him from beaming like a besotted school boy as Hamilton rolled over with a sigh and settled his body comfortably against Laurens’ side. With his forehead pressed into the bend in Laurens’ arm and his knee pressed against Laurens’ hip, Hamilton seemed at last to settle into a contented slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on historicity:
> 
> -Hamilton did favor "The Iliad." Among his papers is a school exercise in which he copied out Book 12 in the original Greek. Bless his heart, the giant nerd. You can see the page at [https://www.loc.gov/resource/mss24612.031_0186_0209/?sp=2]  
> -I have no proof that Laurens studied Greek in school, but as the wealthy son of a British nobleman, it's pretty safe to assume that he had at least a small background in the language. I took advantage of this.  
> -If you think I'm kidding about Hamilton being sick all the time, please read Chernow's "Hamilton." Was that man ever healthy? Sheesh.
> 
> Also, the title is pulled from the Iliad. The original quote reads, “…There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.”


	4. Morning Has Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens wakes up the next morning, alone in Hamilton's bed. What on earth will Alexander think of him?

Laurens woke in the pre-dawn light, stiff and groggy, to the sound of a quill scratching against parchment. As his brain swam towards consciousness, he struggled with a moment’s disorientation.

He was not in his own bed, of that he was certain. The events of the previous night came back to him with all the force of a cannon blast, and as he pressed his fingers to his temple, he remembered the warm press of Hamilton’s leg against his; Hamilton’s fingers questing for purchase on his sleeve when a fever dream had frightened him into half-consciousness; Hamilton’s breath, hot and even, as it made a small, damp patch on the fabric of his shirt.

 _My God_ , Laurens thought, alarmed, _asleep in his bed? What must he think of me?_ Hamilton was no longer beside him, and the idea that the other man had woken to find his bed occupied and abandoned him in disgust brought hot tears of shame to his eyes.

He and Hamilton had shared blankets before, huddled beneath a sagging tent canvas on the eve of battle or crowded into a small trundle when the local inn could not accommodate the entirety of Washington’s staff. But that had been out of necessity: this was something far more intimate, and it made Laurens flush to think that Hamilton had woken in the night to find him curled up against him like a groping schoolboy.

“Awake at last?”

The shock of hearing Hamilton’s voice after his own private musings made him sit bold upright, and it was only then that he realized how snuggly he had been tucked in. Someone had found an extra blanket and pressed it close about his sides, cocooning him in woolen warmth, and despite being quite sure he had fallen asleep sitting up, he found a pillow beneath his head. 

Pressing the sleep from his eyes, Laurens could just make out Hamilton’s silhouette in the firelight, bent over their shared desk as he feverishly wrote out what appeared to be a letter. At his feet, the crumpled remains of half-a-dozen failed attempts lie scattered like so much abandoned chaff.

“I cannot concentrate,” Hamilton explained, sheepishly glancing at the wreckage and grinning in his patent, self-deprecating way. “Just when I think I’ve crafted the right turn-of-phrase, my palm grazes the wet ink and I ruin the whole page. What is to become of me?”

Laurens forced a smile. If his friend thought worse of him for his behavior of the night before, he did not show it, and Laurens found some small comfort in that. Extricating himself from the blankets, he joined Hamilton at the desk and surveyed his work.

“Who warrants such an untimely missive?” he asked, the glare of the firelight hiding the direction on the letter. “It must be important to have you out of your sick bed so early.”

Hamilton scoffed.

“Sick bed, indeed,” he said. “As if a slight fever could keep me from my task. I’ll have you know that I am writing to John Hancock. He must be made to see that Congress is unsafe in Philadelphia, that the British are merely biding their time and may attack at any moment. ”

“You will make him see reason,” Laurens assured him, patting Hamilton’s back in a way that he hoped was neither too familiar nor too stilted.

“From your lips to God’s ears, my friend,” Hamilton smiled.

At that moment, a soft knock on the door startled both men. Hamilton carefully replaced his quill in its stand and unlatched the door to usher in a relieved Marquis de Lafayette.

“ _Mon ami_ ,” Lafayette effused, “it is so good to see you well! I feared your swim might have given you a chill. You did give us a fright!”

Hamilton clapped a hand on Lafayette’s shoulder and smiled broadly. He had been fond of the Frenchman ever since he had joined Washington’s staff, and his evident, unaffected concern merely served to strengthen the love Hamilton had for him.

“I have been in good hands,” Hamilton said, flashing a smile at Laurens and making the other man blush profusely. 

“I have come to escort you to breakfast,” Lafayette said, his gaze encompassing both men. “You are much talked of this morning, Hamilton, and no doubt the men will want to hear of your adventures on the Schuykill.” He paused. “Is it true that Philadelphia is in imminent danger of attack from our British foe?”

Hamiton sighed.

“That is my belief, and that is precisely why I must finish this letter to Mr. Hancock. Laurens,” he said, nodding to his friend, “you must go down to eat. I will join you shortly. Save me some gruel?”

Unable to think of any reason to remain behind, Laurens joined Lafayette and left Hamilton alone to finish his missive.

***************** 

The next three days passed in a whirlwind of activity. With the British on the move and Washington desirous of moving his troops to Warwick post-haste, there was much packing and cleaning of weapons to take up the men’s time. Laurens saw only fleeting glimpses of Hamilton, sometimes falling asleep before the other man had retired to bed and waking up after he had left on some early morning business.

On the 21st of September, a letter arrived from the General addressed to Hamilton from Potts Grove . Laurens was unable to read the expression on his friend’s face as his eyes skimmed the lines, but whatever the content, its importance was clear from the state of the messenger who had arrived mere moments earlier on horseback, both beast and rider covered in sweat and the dust of the road. 

When he finished, Hamilton set the paper down on the desk and stared into the fire, his expression peculiar. He did not smile, although a light in his eyes made Laurens think he must be pleased with whatever he had just read. Any joy he might be feeling was belied, however, by a slight slump in his shoulders.

At last, Laurens could take the suspense no longer.

“What is it, Hamilton? Come on, man, do not leave me in the dark! Has the Day of Judgment arrived, or has Washington managed to keep the Horsemen at bay for another night?”

Hamilton breathed deeply before answering.

“I am commissioned to go to Philadelphia,” he said slowly, “to requisition supplies for the army.”

“But there are no supplies to be had,” Laurens replied, bemused. “The General knows that the public magazines have been depleted.”

“Yes,” Hamilton said, folding the letter carefully and putting it into his breast pocket, “which is why he has given me permission to collect supplies from the inhabitants of the city, and to move any horses from the city into the country where they will no longer be at the mercy of the British forces when they arrive.”

Laurens gaped.

“But such a command – Alexander,” he stammered, letting slip Hamilton’s Christian name, “he honors you. You must know that.”

Hamilton’s face broke into a grin, the first genuine smile he had worn in days. 

“And I will strive to make good that trust he has placed in me,” he said, and before Laurens had time to blink, Hamilton had swept him up in a tight, familiar embrace.

***************** 

There had been no time to question the difficulties of Hamilton’s task, to discuss how such a young man – and a foreigner, too – would be able to compel desperate civilians to part with their belongings for the good of an army that some of them did not even support. As soon as a horse could be made ready, Hamilton rode for Philadelphia, leaving a small cache of letters in Laurens’ possession to be sent out first thing in the morning .

When Laurens returned to their room that night, the warmth of their shared embrace had long since faded away and the chamber seemed colder than even the late September weather warranted. Sinking into the room’s single chair, Laurens rested his elbows on the scarred desktop and closed his eyes, sending prayers to heaven for his friend’s safety.

His eyes, when he opened them, fell on the desktop. In the center of the table, the usual clutter of papers and broken quills had been cleared away and in the middle of it all sat the battered little copy of The Iliad that Laurens had read from on the night that Hamilton had returned like a triumphant Lazarus from his near-death at Davers Ferry. Picking up the volume, Laurens opened to the flyleaf and saw, to his surprise, his own name written out in Hamilton’s careful, measured hand.

_My dear Laurens_  
_Even the gods themselves can bend and change , but never my affection for you._  
_A. Hamilton_

The pages trembled in Laurens’ hands as he read and reread the lines.

This was not the first time that Hamilton had pledged his affection for his fellow aide de camp, but this – this was something altogether different. Written in the pages of a treasured volume, a book that Laurens himself had read while caring for his sick friend when he thought himself unobserved – there was something intimate in the gesture that Laurens could hardly believe to be real, but proof of it was there in front of him, and the only emotion that his heart had room for was hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for excessive historical notes:
> 
> -Hamilton did, in fact, write that letter to John Hancock. Congress thought that he was being rash, and it turns out that the attack didn't happen right away as Hamilton had anticipated. You can read the original letter at [https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0282].
> 
> -Washington's intent to move his troops is documented in a letter to John Hancock (then President of Congress) which can be read at [https://www.loc.gov/resource/mgw3a.003/?sp=23].
> 
> -Headquarters for the war effort was, at this time, at Potts Grove, Pennsylvania.
> 
> -I'm afraid my historical knowledge doesn't extend to the exact date that Hamilton left for Philadelphia. The letter from Washington is dated September 21, and I imagine that, being of a sensitive and urgent nature, it would be have been delivered quickly, but I'm not 100% certain. Feel free to correct me if you know! You can read Washington's letter to Hamilton at [https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0288].
> 
> -The cache of letters that Hamilton gives to Laurens before riding for Pennsylvania is fictional, but as an interesting side-note, Laurens and Hamilton actually wrote a letter together that was post-marked on September 21st. I like to think of them, side-by-side, shoulders pressed together, composing their response to a request by Major General John Sullivan (currently being investigated by Congress for his action at the Battle of the Brandywine on September 11), in the hours before Washington's letter arrived. You can read that letter at [https://founders.archives.gov/?q=Author%3A%22Hamilton%2C%20Alexander%22&s=1111311111&r=125].
> 
> -The inscription in Hamilton's copy of _The Iliad_ comes from Book 9 where Phoenix speaks out against Achilles' stubbornness, a trait which our beloved Hamilton shared in spades.


	5. Victory and Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The defeat at the Battle of Germantown weighs heavily on Hamilton's mind, but he quickly finds a distraction in a wounded Laurens.

_Germantown, 4 October 1777_

The late afternoon sun shone with tangerine intensity upon Washington’s camp, the heavy fog of the morning hours reduced to pearly wisps that wound among the high grasses and mingled with the smoke from countless campfires. The chaos of activity that had lately besieged the camp had dulled to a mere buzz, and but for the handfuls of uniformed officers moving about with purpose gaits and grim looks of determination on their faces, most of the men had lapsed into a state of stunned inactivity.

A stand of birch trees huddled on the edge of the camp. In the shade of their scraggly branches, a young man stripped down to his shirt sleeves stood facing the trunk of one of the smaller specimens. Even from a distance, the sound of shouting was audible though the man was quite alone. But for the proof of one’s own eyes and the certainty that no sane man would ever speak to a tree, it appeared that he was berating the birch.

“ _Damn,_ ” Hamilton hissed, thin boot leather making contact with hardy, weather-hardened bark.

The branches of the frail birch shuddered and Hamilton winced at the dull pain in his toe. A pale, yellowed leaf floated down to land remonstratively on his shoulder, and he brushed it away in frustration.

“Taking out our anger on unsuspecting fauna, are we?” 

The deep voice of Tench Tilghman from a few yards away startled Hamilton out of his brooding.

“You mustn’t take these things so personally,” he said, reaching out to straighten Hamilton’s collar. “You’ll work yourself into an apoplexy.”

“But I do take it personally,” Hamilton cried, turning away to mask the slight catch in his voice. “Two battles lost in as many months, and we are no nearer to independence than we were a year ago – _farther_ , even!”

“Hamilton,” Tilghman said carefully, placing a gentle hand on the other man’s back and leading him away from the shade of the birch trees, “it isn’t wise or helpful to blame yourself for every loss that we suffer. We were out-numbered, and General Washington’s plan—”

“—which I encouraged,” Hamilton interjected desperately.

“Was a good one,” Tilghman continued, unfazed, pressing his friend onto a rough-hewn bench set up just outside the officers’ tent, “brilliant, even, but he miscalculated.”

“Perhaps if we had reorganized the cavalry,” Hamilton muttered, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in his lap, “or waited just another hour longer to maximize the element of surprise…”

Tilghman sighed. “It isn’t healthy to dwell on ‘what-ifs,’ my friend. You need something to keep you occupied. Come with me to the infirmary. Brown could use the help, and I warrant even you can be taught to bandage a bloody arm.”

Tilghman’s wink was lost on Hamilton who nevertheless nodded sullenly and followed his friend across the camp towards the unnerving sound of men’s groans and the occasional, piercing scream.

As they walked, Hamilton’s mind spun with images of the battle. Even in memory, the thick morning fog clouded all and magnified the sound of gunshots and far-off canon blasts.

They had ridden through the night, fourteen miles in all with the moon as their guide, and attacked just before sunrise. Hamilton could still feel the ache in his thighs from the hours of horseback, navigating the terrain with all the stealth that 11,000 troops could manage. And they had been successful – at first. The advance guard had fallen before them, stunned at the sight of the American soldiers emerging over the hills like the dawning sun. But their advantage was short-lived: ammunitions proved scanter than previously believed, Howe’s forces refused to be flanked, and reinforcements from New Jersey and Maryland arrived too late to be effective.

 _How all occasions do seem to inform against me,_ Hamilton mused bitterly. He felt a particular sympathy for the Dane in that moment, driven to insanity by his inability for vengeance against a tyrannical king. If the Mad King were to materialize in the field before him, Hamilton felt quite capable of tearing the man to tatters with his bare hands.

Hamilton flinched as Tilghman grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him from walking into one of the support poles of the infirmary tent. Answering Tilghman's bemused gaze with a shrug, he took a deep breath and braced himself before throwing open the tent flaps and walking straight into a haze of humidity that smelled of sweat, hog lard, and cheap wine .

The scene was chaos, and although Hamilton prided himself on having a strong constitution, it was all he could do to keep from retching. Dozens of men were packed into the tent in varying stages of consciousness: the fortunate had thin pallets on which to lie, but the majority was lucky to have a coat rolled up beneath their heads for a pillow. Blood seemed to stain everything and the only sound louder than the groaning of the wounded was the authoritarian shouts of James Brown, the regiment’s surgeon, as he paced among the prone forms of his patients.

Hamilton admired Brown’s efficiency. For a man with limited formal training quite literally thrust out onto the battlefield with next to no resources, he managed his domain with a cool head and brooked no arguments when it came to the best course of treatment. It was no easy task serving as a battlefield medic, and casualties were looked upon as an unfortunate certainty. Nevertheless, Brown considered it his duty to send his patients out of his tent in better form than they had entered and, on most days, he succeeded.

“All able hands must work,” Brown shouted from across the tent where he bent over the prone form of a soldier whose leg appeared to have been shattered by a cannonball. “We’ve no room for layabouts here, gentlemen.”

Tilghman nodded his agreement and went quickly to work staunching the blood flow from a tow-headed young lad’s scalp wound. Hamilton wandered, quite at a loss for how best to make himself useful.

“Hamilton?”

A faint voice called out to him from a pallet a few yards away, and Hamilton turned to see the pale face of John Laurens staring up at him from a shadowed corner of the tent where he rested with his arm in a sling and an alarming amount of blood down his shirt front.

For a moment, all Hamilton could see was the shocking crimson on Laurens’ chest, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift. Swallowing hard, he managed a weak smile and made his way over to his friend, kneeling at his side and folding his hands in his lap to keep from pressing them to Laurens’ face.

It became quickly apparent that Laurens had been plied with a fair amount of drink, liquor being the medic’s most reliable form of anesthetic.

“Y’should’ve seen me, Alexander,” Laurens slurred slightly. “Led my men right up to their bloody mansion and would have burned the whole, bloody lot if they hadn’t driven us back.”

Hamilton’s mouth twitched into a genuine smile to hear proper Laurens with his European education throw around profanities like a common infantryman.

“I’m sure you were very brave,” Hamilton said, adjusting Laurens’ sling slightly so as to better assess the wound. There were bandages wound tightly around his shoulder, blood already seeping through the linen.

“Gunshot,” Laurens grinned proudly. “But they couldn’t stop me, Alex. Made my own sling…”

Laurens tipped his head towards the crumpled coat on the ground at his side. Abandoned in the effort to care for his injury, the coat lay dejected, singed, and bloodied with a large patch of fabric missing from the hem. As he lifted it from the dirt, his hand grazed something hard and rectangular in the pocket.

Wrapped in a much-darned silk handkerchief was Hamilton’s own copy of The Iliad which he had left with Laurens before riding hell-bent for Philadelphia less than a fortnight previous. Hamilton’s breath caught in his throat to find the little volume, obviously well-loved, preserved so carefully in a pocket next to the other man’s heart. Tears, hot and sudden, rushed to his eyes, and he moved to wipe them away before Laurens could see.

A quiet snore startled Hamilton from his reverie. Laurens’ chin had dropped onto his chest, and he seemed to be sleeping soundly despite his wound. 

Hamilton knew he should attend to the other men, but he could not bring himself to leave Laurens’ side. Instead, he opened the book and settled in more comfortably on the ground at Laurens’ side, his thigh pressed against the warmth of the other man’s good arm, and began to read.

_“Patroclus, slaughter in his heart, chased them down, calling fiercely to his Danaans, while the Trojans, their lines broken, filled the ways in tumultuous flight…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself for a lot of notes in no particular order, guys...
> 
> -The Battle of Germantown was a huge disappointment for Washington and his camp. The General had hoped to surprise Howe's forces, but despite a complex and promising plan of attack, the Americans were run off the battlefield due in part to an unexpected, dense fog. That didn't stop John Laurens from showing his indefatigable chutzpah: he and the Chevalier Du Plessis decided to burn down the mansion where the British were holed up, and Laurens himself carried the fire brand to the door of the house. He was shot in the shoulder and, like a boss, made a sling out of his own uniform and kept on fighting. His courage and complete disregard for his own safety led Lafayette to remark later that “It was not his fault that he was not killed or wounded[,] he did everything that was necessary to procure one or t’other.”  
> -Laurens' wound was not considered serious despite the fact that infection and lack of training among camp medics made recovery uncertain. Apparently shoulder wounds were pretty common and were generally shrugged (haha) off. However, to my mind, that wouldn't have stopped Hamilton from worrying about his friend-and-possible-lover.  
> -The description of the medical tent as redolent of "sweat, hog-lard, and cheap wine" is not random. Hog-lard was commonly used to treat burns, and wine would have been used as an anesthetic (both internally and externally).  
> -The "Hamlet" reference is a bit of inside joke with myself. Hamlet is famous for his indecision, a thinker rather than a doer. Hamilton, despite the similarities in their names, has less in common with the Danish prince than he does with the rash and reckless Laertes who vows revenge without considering the dire consequences.  
> -Medics who served in the war were, on the whole, uneducated. Real anesthetics weren't a thing, amputations were common, and aside from digging bullets out of wounds, there wasn't a whole lot that a camp "doctor" could do when it came to his men besides pray. It was a shit show, seriously.  
> -James Brown is not the name of an actual Revolutionary War medic: I couldn't identify the name of the camp medic at the time of the Germantown fight, so I went ahead and made a period-accurate OC named for my cousin's partner who is, in fact, a doctor.  
> \- I know next to nothing about the geography of Revolutionary-era (or modern, for that matter, though I did do some research) Germantown, so the imagery I employ in this chapter -- sparse as it is -- is largely contrived.  
> -Tench Tilghman was Washington's longest-serving aide de camp. He was fluent in French, and he and Alexander were, to all accounts, quite close during their service.  
> -The reading from "The Iliad" comes from Book XVI where Patroclus, wearing Achilles' stolen armor, leads his men into battle against the Trojans.
> 
> For those interested, here at my sources for this chapter:  
> http://lermagazine.com/cover_story/battlefield-injuries-saving-lives-and-limbs-throughout-history  
> http://www.mountvernon.org/digital-encyclopedia/article/battle-of-germantown/  
> http://www.meetalexanderhamilton.com/Alexander_Hamilton/About.html  
> https://www.nps.gov/vafo/learn/historyculture/johnlaurens.htm  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washington%27s_aides-de-camp  
> http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Greek/Iliad16.php


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